Craving Limelight
My panicolympics entry. :)
Title: Craving Limelight
Team: Team Spencer
Prompt: 'An Eye for an Eye makes the Whole World Blind'
Rating: R
Pairing: implied Ryan/Brendon
Summary: Fuck me? How about fuck you. I'm not going to take this anymore; you don't know jack shit about me. You did this and I will make you pay. My Ross is worse than my bite.
Warnings: Quite a large amount of contempt and arguing.
Word count: 5,544
Notes: Summary based on the video game You Don't Know Jack and the definition of "ross".
Thank you so much to everyone who's already read this and commented etc and thanks to panicolympics for the fun times! Thanks especially to...
lord_323monkey for beta’ing and keeping me going along the way, for being my best friend and my nasty love, and for inflating my ego.
discoanddessert for the last-minute fact-finding skizilz and for being a generally epic person to talk to.
timepassedyouby for listening to me blather on about this fic, helping with writers block, giving an unbiased, unbandom opinion, helping make sense of my ideas, and for helping with step four.
notyourshot for giving me the inspiration to come up with the plot in the first place.
i_heart_cliches for the lulz with my prompt and for telling me this was the “awesomest idea eva.”
skyanne for being my biffle and letting me pester her with random bits of this and telling me weird things about my crotch, cell phones, Spencer Smith, Sean Kingston, and pot cookies.
and finally my mom for reading this even though she had a million and two other things to do, and generally being pretty cool about my weird obsessions.
I love you all!
Craving Limelight
Ryan carefully rubbed at his jaw where he had nicked it. He set down the razor and sighed heavily, staring at himself in the mirror. The small cut wasn’t really all that noticeable, and probably even less so from further away. Nobody would be looking at him this close, anyway. It was an invisible cut, he thought with some humor.
Invisible, like him.
He leaned away from the mirror, sniffing. It was a ridiculous thought; it wasn’t his place to be visible. To be seen, recognized. That was Brendon’s job. Brendon, with a smile and a laugh and always something to say. Always so at ease in the spotlight, always so confident.
Ryan would give anything to have that. He’d give anything, just to crawl out of his shell a tiny bit. To be unafraid of smiling, unafraid of all the shit that came with being famous. Just to have the tiniest bit more confidence, just a tiny push…
He was sure he could be just as good. He knew he could. He had potential, of course. But everyone had potential. Not everyone had a Brendon, though. A Brendon blocking the way.
Ryan smashed his fist on the counter and watched as a shiver rattled up his arm and took his whole body over. He had no right to think like that. None. Brendon was amazing, a Godsend, if Ryan believed in that sort of thing. Brendon was sweet and kind and caring and would never think this way about him. Brendon was perfect, Brendon was everything. Everything to this band; to Ryan.
He walked away from the mirror then, sick of staring at someone so scared of trying. So scared of letting people in. Of taking the plunge; chances. He tucked himself into bed that night, his Hobo on the floor instead of warming his feet. A fleeting thought crossed his bleary mind just before he nodded off.
He could try to sing again.
* * *
Ryan sighed, tucking his guitar in its case and purposefully ignoring the worried look Spencer was giving him from across the room.
So asking about singing in an assertive, bold fashion hadn’t gone over so well. Partly because-well, no, mostly, because-Ryan’s “assertive” was on par with “bitchy” and “diva-like.” Definitely not impressive, and definitely not at all what Ryan wanted to act like.
Like another stupid celebrity.
Spencer eventually gave up and left, leaving Ryan alone and generally more miserable than he had intended. He looked up when the door clicked open, revealing one Brendon Urie. Brendon was relatively easy to read if you knew what you were looking for, and at the moment he looked rather lost.
Ryan stood up, always feeling tinier than usual on the floor; especially around Brendon. Brendon hugged him, one of the little touchy-feely quirks Ryan had grown used to in the other boy. Pulling away, Brendon peered deep into his eyes as though he were searching for something. Ryan firmly believed the other boy could read minds-even more omniscient than Spencer-and tried to steel himself to the gaze.
“You could just ask, y’know?” Brendon said, smiling. Ryan wanted to say that yeah, he did know, and he was sorry for being an ass. Instead, his mouth opened and out came;
“Maybe I needed someone with more musical experience on my side. You wouldn’t have wanted to give it up if it had just been us.”
Lying to Brendon always felt like kicking a dead puppy. Even when they were planning a surprise party for him, Ryan just wanted to throw it all away and tell the younger boy all the secrets he’d been keeping. Needless to say, this wasn’t quite the same reaction as he’d gotten when he’d told Brendon that no, he couldn’t hang out today because he had to do his laundry (dumb excuse then, dumb excuse now).
The smile melted off of Brendon’s face like butter. He backed away, his whole presence screaming rejection and hurt. He scanned Ryan’s face again for some sign of something, though Ryan didn’t know what. His Adam’s apple bobbed once before he said,
“Yeah. Okay,” and turned on a heel and walked away.
Something rather lead-like sank deep inside Ryan’s stomach.
* * *
Brendon flung open the door to his room, kicking the dresser just because he was upset and he could. His big toe protested, however, and he sat on the end of his bed.
He held pounds and pounds of twisted admiration for the older boy; his thoughts, his words, his humor. His smile. Just Ryan in general. But that retort certainly wasn’t very admirable, nor something Brendon had ever expected Ryan to say. Despite his occasional diva-ness Ryan was a pretty sweet guy.
Anger bubbled up from Brendon’s gut and into his throat as he continued to think. Ryan was great and all, but sometimes he could be so stupid.
He wanted some limelight? He thought it was so easy, putting up a mask that everyone thought was Brendon Urie?
Fine.
He could have it.
* * *
The rest of the recording process went fairly smoothly after The Incident, as Brendon titled it for use inside his brain. Though it took some time, it was decided that Ryan would sing the entirety of one song and part of three.
It was a lot more than he had been expecting, so it’s needless to say that Ryan was elated. He was anxious, too, however; nervous and scared and everything he was doing this to grow out of and avoid.
Brendon, while not quite as raw and upset as before, was still pissed off at his friend. Many a night had been spent stewing and before long, he had a plan to make Ryan regret wanting to be in the limelight, to share it.
Phase One of his epic master Plan was set to begin today.
As they were recording they were also working on a behind the scenes “making of” DVD. When discussing what they wanted on the DVD, it was basically unanimous that they wanted it to be a sort of candid thing. It was also thought that it would be good if they talked about the record. When Jon, Spencer, and Ryan murmured about a group interview type thing, Brendon saw the perfect opportunity for his Plan to start unfolding.
“Why doesn’t Ryan talk about it?” he suggested innocently.
While one of the people responsible for the video (possibly the director-who knows) said, “straight from the mind of the lyricist-brilliant!” even though the entire band had written for the record, Ryan glanced up at Brendon with panicked eyes.
To Ryan, Brendon’s face was challenging; mouth mocking, eyes angry. He swallowed thickly.
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll do it.”
So here they were now; watching Ryan while the camera guys got their stuff set up. Situated in a white chair with an intricate design on the back that made him look tinier than he was, Ryan constantly shifted his gaze from person to person and object to object. “He looks uncomfortable” was more than an understatement.
He answered the questions faithfully, however, though he did keep stroking and fussing with one of his sideburns. Jon was mocking him quietly, and Spencer was giggling because it was pretty funny and a pretty good imitation.
Brendon was almost disgusted at the self-satisfaction he felt toward his friend’s discomfort. Almost.
* * *
It was Spencer who pulled Brendon off to the side after Ryan went home that night. Brendon looked at the younger boy, slightly confused. He was just staring at him, as though Brendon read minds or something.
“Speak, Spence,” he joked; his grin faltered.
“What are you two doing?”
Brendon blinked.
“What?”
Spencer rolled his eyes, as though whatever nonsense he was on about made sense. “You and Ryan. What are you plotting?”
Oh, so Spencer thought they were working together? Hah, funny. Yet at the same time, Brendon understood. They were usually on the same side; they all were. He huffed out through his nose, licked his lips, and then said;
“Well I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’m planning my revenge.”
Spencer continued to stare at him.
“What Spencer, I don’t have ESP!”
“I was waiting for the ‘mwahahahaha!’.”
They both stared at each other, now, before breaking into identical, face-splitting grins.
“You’re a funny one, Spencer Smith.”
“Don’t change the subject with flattery, Brendon Urie. Revenge?”
He shrugged casually, though the venom in his eyes was rather obvious. Spencer somehow managed to control his stupid, inappropriate grin (“I can see the venom in your eyes, goodbye…”).
“Ryan’s being a total diva-bitch again, so I go up to him after that one session, y’know? And I tell him he coulda just asked us, but he’s all, ‘noo, you’re a stupid bitch and you wouldn’t have let me, Brendon!’ So now I’m giving him what he wants.”
“Which is…?”
“Limelight, obviously.”
Spencer raised an eyebrow, lips pushed together in a thin line. “You’re a retard.”
Brendon’s mouth dropped open.
“Good luck with your ‘plan,’ then, Bren. Just don’t let it cave in on your head.”
With that, he walked away.
Brendon stared after him, confused and lost and hurt. His Plan was not retarded. And Spencer was usually against Ryan’s diva-ness, too! What the fuck?
The singer went home again that night with thoughts reeling and a heavy heart.
* * *
Brrring. Brrring. Brrring.
Groan.
“The fuck?”
“Jon, help.”
“Brendon, its four fucking a.m., what the fuck do you want?”
“Your genius-ness to assist me?”
Jon could actually hear the hopeful grin. Ugh. He rubbed an eye with his free hand, yawned, and asked;
“What is it, Bren?”
“You know how Ryan’s being a ridiculous diva-bitch, right?”
It took a few moments for Jon’s half-awake brain to recall the past week or so. He gently massaged one of his temples; it felt like his thoughts were all made up of magnets. The same poles, and they all just repelled each other and none of them wanted to connect and make sense.
It was definitely too early.
“How long have you been up, Bren…?”
“Jon!”
“Ugh. Yes, yes, I know.”
“Okay, well.” He explained what had happened when he confronted Ryan, then took a deep breath. “And then I told Spencer about it and he called me and my Plan retarded and he gave me that look he gives stupid people and it is not a stupid plan, is it Jon?”
Jon stretched his eyes open, willing the spots in his vision to go away. Brendon was most likely on at least two of the small Red Bulls.
“I don’t know, Bren, I mean… Spencer’s probably mostly right. He usually is.”
Again, he could nearly hear the other boy roll his eyes. Creepy. Need more sleep.
“But Ryan does probably need to be kicked down a peg if he said that to you. I dunno, just be careful, okay? We only have one Ryan; we don’t need him to have a mental breakdown or something.”
Brendon literally freaking squealed. “Thanks, Jon! I knew it. And don’t worry, I’ll be careful with your Ry-Ry, dude.”
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose as Brendon snickered. He was going to go grey before he turned thirty, he just knew it.
“How long have you been up now…? And how many Red Bulls did you have?”
“Oh, I don’t know, like twenty-two hours or something. And I only had one Red Bull since midnight but I have some candy here, too…”
“Good night, Brendon.”
Beeeeeeee…
* * *
Spencer called Brendon at exactly seven thirty two that same morning. Brendon had just fallen asleep a little while ago and was really kind of pissed that his phone was ringing. He felt a sudden pang of remorse for bothering Jon.
“What?” he snapped into the tiny receiver.
“Brendon, we have to talk.”
“We are talking.” Brendon really couldn’t help but point these things out. It was so tempting.
“Shut up, asshole. Let me talk.”
Brendon managed to choke back his “you are,” and merely made a noise of assent.
“I think we should make some backups for the DVD.”
Brendon blinked slowly. “What d’you mean, backups?”
“Obviously,” Spencer huffed, “this Ryan-bitch thing is going to end badly and it’s going to be one stupid fuckin’ DVD with his awkwardness all over it. I say we get them to record me and you and Jon individually too, so y’know…” He sighed. “This made a lot more sense when it was still inside my head.”
Laughing softly, Brendon thought about the gist of the idea. It was probably a good one, incase his own plan backfired or something.
“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”
“Great. See you later,” and the line went dead.
* * *
They did just that later that day, arriving before Ryan so he didn’t know what was going on. They all took turns in the big, white chair and answered questions about the record and recording.
Spencer was rather satisfied. At least this way they wouldn’t be headed for a train wreck right off the bat. He just hoped against hope that Brendon knew when to stop beating a dead horse.
Like now, as Ryan paced around the room, wringing his hands and fretting about why the videographers were back. Asking, did he do a bad job? Was there something wrong he had said? Forgetting that the rest of the film was to be candid, oblivious to his friends recording behind his back.
Now, as the interviewer from Rolling Stone stepped in, all friendly smiles, asking if she could borrow one of them for a few minutes.
Now, as Brendon pushed Ryan towards her, saying that he should just talk to her and “relax man, really.”
The sound of a door shutting had never been so ominous.
* * *
For the rest of the duration of Panic at the Disco’s stay at The Palms studio, Brendon jumped at every chance he got to get Ryan to do interviews alone. Ryan was on edge, making more mistakes and becoming so skittish that it made you nervous just to watch him. It pained Spencer when he realized Brendon didn’t see it happening. Jon would put his head in his hands and run them through his hair, sighing, wondering when the madness would stop.
“I gotta finish this. I gotta finish this.”
That used to be Ryan’s mantra, the only thing that would come out of his mouth while they were recording Fever. He would sit there, closed off, staring down at a mostly-blank notebook; knowing that all his creativity was just about drained. But they needed more tracks for the record and the stress had gotten to his head, and that was all he would say.
“I gotta finish this. I gotta.”
The same energy was outpouring from him now. Increasingly high levels of stress, anxiety, self-doubt. To borrow borrowed lines; the weather was tense and full of varied levels of disgust, annoyance, and bittersweet behavior. Just for the record.
Just for the record, when Brendon looked up from the simple chords he was plinking down on the piano and saw fear hardening in Ryan’s eyes, he almost gave up his plan. Almost.
Spencer was off in his own little world of moping and thinking when it happened. Now, he’ll tell you it was such a sudden change, that it couldn’t have been witnessed. Just for the record, it had been.
Because Jon looked up, then. Jon, ignoring the weather: cool breezes of nerves with a sudden wave of humidity-oh, sorry, stupidity. Jon saw, when he picked his head out of his hands to try and get someone to sit, to laugh.
He saw the admiration for Brendon leave Ryan’s eyes. He saw them turn into voids. He saw. People might say the boy is monotonous; is unfeeling, but one look in his eyes and you know it’s not true.
But everything left them, in that split second.
In that second, when Jon looked up by mere chance, the world stopped spinning.
Just for the record.
* * *
Almost exactly like a day during the recording of Fever, the world picked back up again almost instantly. That day years ago, Ryan had leapt up off the ground and began scrawling in his notebook, inspiration come flooding back to him like the gates of hell had opened. He wouldn’t stop writing even when his hand cramped up.
This time however, it was light that flowed back into Ryan’s eyes, but it was different. Something about them was not as it should be, but Jon couldn’t put a finger on it.
And so he said nothing.
It may have been the weather was actually beckoning light showers of The Greatest Mistake of Your Life.
Just for the record.
* * *
The following week was spent finalizing the record and finishing the majority of filming for the DVD. With all the rushing and stress, no one had much time to think about anything but their individual tasks-at-hand.
Brendon lightened up considerably, much to Spencer and Jon’s relief, and Ryan seemed to be a bit calmer. Well, a lot calmer. Perhaps, without Brendon breathing down his back about everything, he felt more comfortable, or perhaps it was something else.
Jon even forgot what he’d witnessed the week before. The incident was filed away somewhere deep inside of his memory, along with tidbits like ‘how to factor numbers’ and ‘Christopher Columbus found The New World in 1492.’
Even after all that needed to be done was done, Panic only had a few days off before they were packing and headed off to Europe for their last tour before the new CD.
Any worries Spencer may or may not have had about the tour were nearly entirely eliminated on the plane ride, as Ryan and Brendon were back to being friendly and happy and cheerful with each other, and Ryan wasn’t jumping and twitching at every little thing he might have done wrong.
Though, if Spencer was being perfectly honest with himself, there was something a little bit off about Ryan Ross. And even after all those years of knowing him, he couldn’t quite put a finger on what.
* * *
Indeed, everything seemed to be going quite well for the boys of Panic at the Disco (just for the record). They flowed near-seamlessly together, both in interviews-even though Ryan was more outspoken than normal-and on stage.
Offstage was a constant loop of sidestepping and wary glances, a never ending downpour of doubt and cheesy grins. Jon, having put everything behind him, sent his cool-as-cucumber smiles around the group, attempting to settle them down.
Ryan seemed unnaturally at ease, waving worries off with a flap of his thin hand and staring blankly at most anyone who addressed him.
Brendon, though generally as close to his usual formula of serious and hyper as normal, seemed edgy. An almost demonic sparkle lit his dark eyes, and the smirk on his lips said “screw the piano-I know something you don’t know.”
The most awkward out of all of them was Spencer; skirting around everyone as though he was trying to pretend everything was in fact, standard. He walked on eggshells; tread uncharted waters. His laughter was shaky and his smiles few and far between.
Zack? He just didn’t know what to do with anyone.
This steady schedule, this simple routine, this regularity went on for a good week or so until finally, one day an hour before they went on stage, Brendon dropped the grenade.
He flopped down on a chair, stretched his arms high above his head, and sighed heavily.
“Man, guys, I just don’t know what to say tonight.”
Six eyes stared at him; his veiled grin. Skittish, interested, indifferent. Three people identified merely by their behavior.
Taking the initiative no one else seemed willing to take, Jon spoke. “What d’you mean, Bren?”
He sighed again. “Its just…it’s lame to say the same old thing every night and I’m growing a little bored of it, but I just don’t know what to say… I wish you guys would back me up now and again.”
Skittish turned to annoyed as Spencer rolled his eyes, brushing off the drama by merely turning away. Bemusement came from interest when Jon raised an eyebrow at Brendon, silently questioning the extremity, before suggesting introducing a different set of songs and walking away.
It was only Ryan who actually looked mildly affronted as his thoughts ran wild; shock, hurt, anger. He always backed Brendon up, whether with a silent reassurance or a vocal addition. What right did he have to say that nobody ever backed him up?
It was really a wonder nobody noticed this personal attack.
* * *
That night, Ryan jumped in with steely determination and introduced each song before Brendon even had a chance to open his mouth. In fact, those lips seemed rather content to smirk the time away as Ryan spoke.
When they left the stage later on, Ryan wiped his face with a small white towel before throwing it at Brendon and sparing him a withering, challenging glance, then whirling on his heel and walking away.
Spencer and Jon both stared after him, slack-jawed.
Brendon just grinned.
* * *
That night, curled up in the cramped heat of his bunk, Brendon tossed and turned. He gripped his pillow, nestling it close to his chest and sighing heavily. He put on two layers of socks and snuggled chin-deep under his blankets, but nothing seemed to shake the empty cold he felt deep inside.
It was sad, he thought, that he had far too much pride to seek out the one thing that could fill him up again.
* * *
One day, Ryan went missing.
It really was just as simple as that. He was gone, and nobody seemed to know where he’d run off to.
“He couldn’t have gone far,” reassured a techie.
“He’ll make sound check, don’t worry,” promised someone working for them no one had ever seen before. In response, the slightly quick-tempered woman in charge of bossing them around at this particular venue spat out in her thick French accent, “’E better be ‘ere by zound check!”
Hours later found Brendon and the rather panicked Frenchwoman pacing back and forth across the room. Spencer buried his head in his hands, cell phone clutched tightly in one of them, while Jon looked torn between something invisible.
“Dude, where the fuck is he?” Brendon swore, as the managing Frenchwoman was screaming something similar in rushed, angry syllables that none of them understood.
Jon peeked cautiously between Spencer and Brendon, though his eyes tended to linger on the former’s nervous fingers. A strange sense of déjà vu had settled over him; on the other side, now, of a major band crisis. He knew they were literally minutes away from witnessing Spencer dial up anyone and everyone he knew and trusted, begging and questioning how long it would take them to get to France.
The last time this had occurred, it had been Jon on the other end of the phone line. And, well, as they say: the rest is history.
Jon really hoped Ryan got back soon.
* * *
Ten minutes to sound check-ten seconds to Spencer pushing “dial” on the screen of his cell, ready and waiting to contact Michael Guy Chislett of The Academy Is-and Ryan walks in the door; all nonchalance and cocked eyebrows.
Spencer leapt up, anger bubbling high in his heart. The phone slipped from his fingers, cracking as it connected with the floor. Jon grinned, happy and relieved. It was Brendon who let his feelings explode.
“Where the fucking hell were you?” he boomed, face bright red. “Do you have any idea how worried we were? Any at all?!”
Ryan merely blinked, slow and sure, before he spoke. “I was doing an interview. Some lady came up to me when I was headed up here earlier and asked if she could ask me a few questions, and I figured, ‘why not?’”
Jon watched Spencer’s jaw drop, and just for the record, his heart fell with it.
“But…why?”
Ryan shrugged. “Because,” he began, cool eyes boring into Brendon, “wouldn’t you have just sent me off to do it anyway?”
The air around them tightened, and nothing more needed to be said. Not even the enraged manager thought it wise to say anything; she merely turned on her heel and went to check on other things.
The show that night was definitely under-par. Spencer felt it a miracle that nobody called them on it.
* * *
Several show nights passed, and everyone was growing increasingly frustrated with Ryan. At first, most everyone had seen it as a good thing, him slowly emerging from his shell. Speaking up in interviews without being prompted, even talking more on stage; that was all positive-well, it might be more so, if Brendon hadn’t pressured him into it in the first place.
However, along with this newfound confidence came a lot of attitude-attitude no one really appreciated.
He was whiny when he didn’t get things he wanted, cranky about everything ranging from not having matching socks to a hotel without room service.
Jon joked one day that he sounded just like Paris Hilton, but the shaky laughter quickly subsided when they all realized just how true the statement was.
Sure, Ryan could be a real diva. But this had never happened before; this was something they didn’t know how to deal with, this was over-the-top, this was uncalled for.
This wasn’t Ryan anymore.
* * *
Days passed, and things got progressively worse. Nobody wanted to say anything about it, and that’s what irked Jon the most. Spencer, he thought, should be the one to be yelling, but ever since the MIA fiasco he seemed to be too shy and edgy to say anything about Ryan’s shitty behavior. (Just for the record, Spencer didn’t want Ryan running off like Brent did. Even after all this time, he was terrified it would happen again. They all were.)
Jon was also rather nonplussed with Brendon. Brendon, who had been so quick to snap at Ryan before. Brendon, who very well may have gotten them into this mess in the first place, and he didn’t have the balls to say anything now.
Hypocritical as it may be, Jon himself didn’t say anything until the one day he was far too peeved to make everyone coffee as usual. One time, he made a cup just for himself.
And Ryan exploded.
“What the hell, Jon?” he screeched, face scrunched and turning angry pink.
Jon snapped; elastic stretched too far.
“No, Ryan, what the hell is up with you?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about? Are you kidding me?”
The look on Jon’s face was one that none of them had ever seen before, so full of malice and anger. It glued Brendon to his seat with a thick layer of shock, but something about it made Spencer spring to action.
“You’re not the same, Ryan,” he said, soft but strong.
“I’m not the same?” asked Ryan, incredulous.
“No, you aren’t, man,” Brendon chimed in after a beat.
Jon prompted, “you’ve changed.”
“What the fuck! Why the hell are you all ganging up on me? What the fuck did I do? I’ve changed?”
“You have, Ryan,” Brendon said, shaking his head. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Ryan’s face got redder, and redder, and redder; his eyes darker, and darker, and darker. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that what you were trying to do? Making me sing, making me do all those interviews-“
“Making you sing?!” Jon shrieked, just as pissed off now. Spencer cut him off before he had a chance to say anything more.
“Ryan, you have changed. Please just listen to us. You’re being ridiculous, and-“
“Spencer, people grow up!” Ryan threw his arms up as he hollered. “I’m not the same kid as I was when you first met me, I’m not the same teenager I was when we made this band! I changed? What about you?”
“Ryan-"
“I don’t want to hear it! I’ve grown up, and if you guys can’t…if you can’t fucking deal with that, then I’m out of here.”
Spencer’s jaw dropped. Jon’s eyes grew to saucers.
“Listen, Ryan-" he tried.
“Fuck. You!” Ryan roared, then turned on his heel and marched away.
Jon turned to Brendon, horror and accusation and hurt and worry flashing across his face so fast it nearly made his head spin. Spencer was looking at the ground, but Brendon knew he was crushed.
The young singer was out of his seat and running in less than two-point-five seconds.
* * *
Brendon chased the other boy down the seemingly endless bus aisle, terror grabbing hold of his chest and twisting. This wasn’t happening-not again, not to them, not to this band, not to him.
“Ryan!” he all but screamed. “Ryan, wait! Listen to me!”
Ryan whirled around. “What, Brendon,” he snapped, far more statement than question.
“Listen to me.”
Brendon heaved as though he had run a marathon, not even aware he just repeated himself. Ryan stared at him, but it wasn’t patience in his gaze.
“Ryan, you did change. And-“
“I think-“
“Damnit!”
Ryan’s mouth snapped shut.
“You did. And you didn’t fucking have to-not for us, not for the public, not for me, not for anyone! Not even for yourself, Ryan, ‘cause there was nothing wrong with you. If you wanted to sing, then fine! None of us would have had a problem with it, seriously! We’re your friends, treat us better than that.”
Brendon took a long, shaky breath.
“And I can’t help but think this is my fault, ‘cause I pushed you into it, but I didn’t mean to, Ry! Well, I did, but not this. Nobody would have wanted this. Ryan, I-I just…” He ran a hand through his hair as Ryan stood stock-still, waiting.
“We need you, Ryan. We love you, not this…this fake. We miss you, Ryan.” He sighed, knowing that anyone would be able to pick out his use of the royal ‘we,’ and added in a whisper, “I miss you.”
He bowed his head, and an old memory came rushing back, smashing into his wide eyes like a neon train wreck.
Brendon lazed on his top bunk on their first tour with The Bus. With his sidekick in one hand and the other dangling off the edge, he felt perfectly content.
“I miss you,’ he said into the phone, a small smile on his lips. Soft fingers stretched up and touched his hand.
“You can’t miss me, Brendon, I’m right here.”
Brendon’s head jolted up, his eyes met Ryan’s, and he completely froze up. He could see something deep inside the clouded, hazel orbs that had been missing for so long. His brain informed him that this was the part in movies and books where you go running and attack the other person with a hug, or possibly an overly passionate kiss. But this was Brendon Urie’s life, and Brendon Urie’s life was not a movie. Besides, he really was too shocked to move.
Then, Ryan smiled. It was so real, so unlike the “Ryan” that had taken over. It spread like wildfire onto Brendon’s face, and the two were soon doubled over in laughter at absolutely nothing.
Brendon’s sides ached and he was certain Ryan wasn’t getting any air at all, his face was so red. But he felt relieved; felt like maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out okay.
* * *
That night, Ryan and Brendon curled up together as best as they could in the same bunk. Brendon’s soul swelled and Ryan’s heart must have regained seven sizes. His shyness not as evident as it once was-he would probably never be the same-he spoke softly,
“You really missed me?”
Wriggling around to face him, Brendon raised an eyebrow. “Of course I did, man, you’re such a douche.”
And then he laughed, gently poking Ryan in the nose. Lines scrunched around the small appendage as the guitarist poked his tongue out lamely. Brendon chuckled again and sucked what was visible of Ryan’s pink tongue in for an affectionate kiss.
Pulling away, he beamed.
“Actually,” he mused, “I think I missed that more.”
The next second found him on his butt in the bus aisle, laughing hysterically when he heard his friend’s annoyed huff.
Things were going to be okay. Brendon felt it in his heart.
Jon and Spencer looked on from their hideout in Jon’s bunk, smiling merry little smiles at each other at the sight before them.
“It’s good to have you back, Ryan,” Jon murmured. Spencer snorted.
“It’s good to have Brendon back, too.”
Jon nodded his agreement, and both men slid out of the bunk and into the kitchenette. They were all back, and just for the record? It was great to be home.
Title: Craving Limelight
Team: Team Spencer
Prompt: 'An Eye for an Eye makes the Whole World Blind'
Rating: R
Pairing: implied Ryan/Brendon
Summary: Fuck me? How about fuck you. I'm not going to take this anymore; you don't know jack shit about me. You did this and I will make you pay. My Ross is worse than my bite.
Warnings: Quite a large amount of contempt and arguing.
Word count: 5,544
Notes: Summary based on the video game You Don't Know Jack and the definition of "ross".
Thank you so much to everyone who's already read this and commented etc and thanks to panicolympics for the fun times! Thanks especially to...
lord_323monkey for beta’ing and keeping me going along the way, for being my best friend and my nasty love, and for inflating my ego.
discoanddessert for the last-minute fact-finding skizilz and for being a generally epic person to talk to.
timepassedyouby for listening to me blather on about this fic, helping with writers block, giving an unbiased, unbandom opinion, helping make sense of my ideas, and for helping with step four.
notyourshot for giving me the inspiration to come up with the plot in the first place.
i_heart_cliches for the lulz with my prompt and for telling me this was the “awesomest idea eva.”
skyanne for being my biffle and letting me pester her with random bits of this and telling me weird things about my crotch, cell phones, Spencer Smith, Sean Kingston, and pot cookies.
and finally my mom for reading this even though she had a million and two other things to do, and generally being pretty cool about my weird obsessions.
I love you all!
Craving Limelight
Ryan carefully rubbed at his jaw where he had nicked it. He set down the razor and sighed heavily, staring at himself in the mirror. The small cut wasn’t really all that noticeable, and probably even less so from further away. Nobody would be looking at him this close, anyway. It was an invisible cut, he thought with some humor.
Invisible, like him.
He leaned away from the mirror, sniffing. It was a ridiculous thought; it wasn’t his place to be visible. To be seen, recognized. That was Brendon’s job. Brendon, with a smile and a laugh and always something to say. Always so at ease in the spotlight, always so confident.
Ryan would give anything to have that. He’d give anything, just to crawl out of his shell a tiny bit. To be unafraid of smiling, unafraid of all the shit that came with being famous. Just to have the tiniest bit more confidence, just a tiny push…
He was sure he could be just as good. He knew he could. He had potential, of course. But everyone had potential. Not everyone had a Brendon, though. A Brendon blocking the way.
Ryan smashed his fist on the counter and watched as a shiver rattled up his arm and took his whole body over. He had no right to think like that. None. Brendon was amazing, a Godsend, if Ryan believed in that sort of thing. Brendon was sweet and kind and caring and would never think this way about him. Brendon was perfect, Brendon was everything. Everything to this band; to Ryan.
He walked away from the mirror then, sick of staring at someone so scared of trying. So scared of letting people in. Of taking the plunge; chances. He tucked himself into bed that night, his Hobo on the floor instead of warming his feet. A fleeting thought crossed his bleary mind just before he nodded off.
He could try to sing again.
* * *
Ryan sighed, tucking his guitar in its case and purposefully ignoring the worried look Spencer was giving him from across the room.
So asking about singing in an assertive, bold fashion hadn’t gone over so well. Partly because-well, no, mostly, because-Ryan’s “assertive” was on par with “bitchy” and “diva-like.” Definitely not impressive, and definitely not at all what Ryan wanted to act like.
Like another stupid celebrity.
Spencer eventually gave up and left, leaving Ryan alone and generally more miserable than he had intended. He looked up when the door clicked open, revealing one Brendon Urie. Brendon was relatively easy to read if you knew what you were looking for, and at the moment he looked rather lost.
Ryan stood up, always feeling tinier than usual on the floor; especially around Brendon. Brendon hugged him, one of the little touchy-feely quirks Ryan had grown used to in the other boy. Pulling away, Brendon peered deep into his eyes as though he were searching for something. Ryan firmly believed the other boy could read minds-even more omniscient than Spencer-and tried to steel himself to the gaze.
“You could just ask, y’know?” Brendon said, smiling. Ryan wanted to say that yeah, he did know, and he was sorry for being an ass. Instead, his mouth opened and out came;
“Maybe I needed someone with more musical experience on my side. You wouldn’t have wanted to give it up if it had just been us.”
Lying to Brendon always felt like kicking a dead puppy. Even when they were planning a surprise party for him, Ryan just wanted to throw it all away and tell the younger boy all the secrets he’d been keeping. Needless to say, this wasn’t quite the same reaction as he’d gotten when he’d told Brendon that no, he couldn’t hang out today because he had to do his laundry (dumb excuse then, dumb excuse now).
The smile melted off of Brendon’s face like butter. He backed away, his whole presence screaming rejection and hurt. He scanned Ryan’s face again for some sign of something, though Ryan didn’t know what. His Adam’s apple bobbed once before he said,
“Yeah. Okay,” and turned on a heel and walked away.
Something rather lead-like sank deep inside Ryan’s stomach.
* * *
Brendon flung open the door to his room, kicking the dresser just because he was upset and he could. His big toe protested, however, and he sat on the end of his bed.
He held pounds and pounds of twisted admiration for the older boy; his thoughts, his words, his humor. His smile. Just Ryan in general. But that retort certainly wasn’t very admirable, nor something Brendon had ever expected Ryan to say. Despite his occasional diva-ness Ryan was a pretty sweet guy.
Anger bubbled up from Brendon’s gut and into his throat as he continued to think. Ryan was great and all, but sometimes he could be so stupid.
He wanted some limelight? He thought it was so easy, putting up a mask that everyone thought was Brendon Urie?
Fine.
He could have it.
* * *
The rest of the recording process went fairly smoothly after The Incident, as Brendon titled it for use inside his brain. Though it took some time, it was decided that Ryan would sing the entirety of one song and part of three.
It was a lot more than he had been expecting, so it’s needless to say that Ryan was elated. He was anxious, too, however; nervous and scared and everything he was doing this to grow out of and avoid.
Brendon, while not quite as raw and upset as before, was still pissed off at his friend. Many a night had been spent stewing and before long, he had a plan to make Ryan regret wanting to be in the limelight, to share it.
Phase One of his epic master Plan was set to begin today.
As they were recording they were also working on a behind the scenes “making of” DVD. When discussing what they wanted on the DVD, it was basically unanimous that they wanted it to be a sort of candid thing. It was also thought that it would be good if they talked about the record. When Jon, Spencer, and Ryan murmured about a group interview type thing, Brendon saw the perfect opportunity for his Plan to start unfolding.
“Why doesn’t Ryan talk about it?” he suggested innocently.
While one of the people responsible for the video (possibly the director-who knows) said, “straight from the mind of the lyricist-brilliant!” even though the entire band had written for the record, Ryan glanced up at Brendon with panicked eyes.
To Ryan, Brendon’s face was challenging; mouth mocking, eyes angry. He swallowed thickly.
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll do it.”
So here they were now; watching Ryan while the camera guys got their stuff set up. Situated in a white chair with an intricate design on the back that made him look tinier than he was, Ryan constantly shifted his gaze from person to person and object to object. “He looks uncomfortable” was more than an understatement.
He answered the questions faithfully, however, though he did keep stroking and fussing with one of his sideburns. Jon was mocking him quietly, and Spencer was giggling because it was pretty funny and a pretty good imitation.
Brendon was almost disgusted at the self-satisfaction he felt toward his friend’s discomfort. Almost.
* * *
It was Spencer who pulled Brendon off to the side after Ryan went home that night. Brendon looked at the younger boy, slightly confused. He was just staring at him, as though Brendon read minds or something.
“Speak, Spence,” he joked; his grin faltered.
“What are you two doing?”
Brendon blinked.
“What?”
Spencer rolled his eyes, as though whatever nonsense he was on about made sense. “You and Ryan. What are you plotting?”
Oh, so Spencer thought they were working together? Hah, funny. Yet at the same time, Brendon understood. They were usually on the same side; they all were. He huffed out through his nose, licked his lips, and then said;
“Well I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’m planning my revenge.”
Spencer continued to stare at him.
“What Spencer, I don’t have ESP!”
“I was waiting for the ‘mwahahahaha!’.”
They both stared at each other, now, before breaking into identical, face-splitting grins.
“You’re a funny one, Spencer Smith.”
“Don’t change the subject with flattery, Brendon Urie. Revenge?”
He shrugged casually, though the venom in his eyes was rather obvious. Spencer somehow managed to control his stupid, inappropriate grin (“I can see the venom in your eyes, goodbye…”).
“Ryan’s being a total diva-bitch again, so I go up to him after that one session, y’know? And I tell him he coulda just asked us, but he’s all, ‘noo, you’re a stupid bitch and you wouldn’t have let me, Brendon!’ So now I’m giving him what he wants.”
“Which is…?”
“Limelight, obviously.”
Spencer raised an eyebrow, lips pushed together in a thin line. “You’re a retard.”
Brendon’s mouth dropped open.
“Good luck with your ‘plan,’ then, Bren. Just don’t let it cave in on your head.”
With that, he walked away.
Brendon stared after him, confused and lost and hurt. His Plan was not retarded. And Spencer was usually against Ryan’s diva-ness, too! What the fuck?
The singer went home again that night with thoughts reeling and a heavy heart.
* * *
Brrring. Brrring. Brrring.
Groan.
“The fuck?”
“Jon, help.”
“Brendon, its four fucking a.m., what the fuck do you want?”
“Your genius-ness to assist me?”
Jon could actually hear the hopeful grin. Ugh. He rubbed an eye with his free hand, yawned, and asked;
“What is it, Bren?”
“You know how Ryan’s being a ridiculous diva-bitch, right?”
It took a few moments for Jon’s half-awake brain to recall the past week or so. He gently massaged one of his temples; it felt like his thoughts were all made up of magnets. The same poles, and they all just repelled each other and none of them wanted to connect and make sense.
It was definitely too early.
“How long have you been up, Bren…?”
“Jon!”
“Ugh. Yes, yes, I know.”
“Okay, well.” He explained what had happened when he confronted Ryan, then took a deep breath. “And then I told Spencer about it and he called me and my Plan retarded and he gave me that look he gives stupid people and it is not a stupid plan, is it Jon?”
Jon stretched his eyes open, willing the spots in his vision to go away. Brendon was most likely on at least two of the small Red Bulls.
“I don’t know, Bren, I mean… Spencer’s probably mostly right. He usually is.”
Again, he could nearly hear the other boy roll his eyes. Creepy. Need more sleep.
“But Ryan does probably need to be kicked down a peg if he said that to you. I dunno, just be careful, okay? We only have one Ryan; we don’t need him to have a mental breakdown or something.”
Brendon literally freaking squealed. “Thanks, Jon! I knew it. And don’t worry, I’ll be careful with your Ry-Ry, dude.”
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose as Brendon snickered. He was going to go grey before he turned thirty, he just knew it.
“How long have you been up now…? And how many Red Bulls did you have?”
“Oh, I don’t know, like twenty-two hours or something. And I only had one Red Bull since midnight but I have some candy here, too…”
“Good night, Brendon.”
Beeeeeeee…
* * *
Spencer called Brendon at exactly seven thirty two that same morning. Brendon had just fallen asleep a little while ago and was really kind of pissed that his phone was ringing. He felt a sudden pang of remorse for bothering Jon.
“What?” he snapped into the tiny receiver.
“Brendon, we have to talk.”
“We are talking.” Brendon really couldn’t help but point these things out. It was so tempting.
“Shut up, asshole. Let me talk.”
Brendon managed to choke back his “you are,” and merely made a noise of assent.
“I think we should make some backups for the DVD.”
Brendon blinked slowly. “What d’you mean, backups?”
“Obviously,” Spencer huffed, “this Ryan-bitch thing is going to end badly and it’s going to be one stupid fuckin’ DVD with his awkwardness all over it. I say we get them to record me and you and Jon individually too, so y’know…” He sighed. “This made a lot more sense when it was still inside my head.”
Laughing softly, Brendon thought about the gist of the idea. It was probably a good one, incase his own plan backfired or something.
“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”
“Great. See you later,” and the line went dead.
* * *
They did just that later that day, arriving before Ryan so he didn’t know what was going on. They all took turns in the big, white chair and answered questions about the record and recording.
Spencer was rather satisfied. At least this way they wouldn’t be headed for a train wreck right off the bat. He just hoped against hope that Brendon knew when to stop beating a dead horse.
Like now, as Ryan paced around the room, wringing his hands and fretting about why the videographers were back. Asking, did he do a bad job? Was there something wrong he had said? Forgetting that the rest of the film was to be candid, oblivious to his friends recording behind his back.
Now, as the interviewer from Rolling Stone stepped in, all friendly smiles, asking if she could borrow one of them for a few minutes.
Now, as Brendon pushed Ryan towards her, saying that he should just talk to her and “relax man, really.”
The sound of a door shutting had never been so ominous.
* * *
For the rest of the duration of Panic at the Disco’s stay at The Palms studio, Brendon jumped at every chance he got to get Ryan to do interviews alone. Ryan was on edge, making more mistakes and becoming so skittish that it made you nervous just to watch him. It pained Spencer when he realized Brendon didn’t see it happening. Jon would put his head in his hands and run them through his hair, sighing, wondering when the madness would stop.
“I gotta finish this. I gotta finish this.”
That used to be Ryan’s mantra, the only thing that would come out of his mouth while they were recording Fever. He would sit there, closed off, staring down at a mostly-blank notebook; knowing that all his creativity was just about drained. But they needed more tracks for the record and the stress had gotten to his head, and that was all he would say.
“I gotta finish this. I gotta.”
The same energy was outpouring from him now. Increasingly high levels of stress, anxiety, self-doubt. To borrow borrowed lines; the weather was tense and full of varied levels of disgust, annoyance, and bittersweet behavior. Just for the record.
Just for the record, when Brendon looked up from the simple chords he was plinking down on the piano and saw fear hardening in Ryan’s eyes, he almost gave up his plan. Almost.
Spencer was off in his own little world of moping and thinking when it happened. Now, he’ll tell you it was such a sudden change, that it couldn’t have been witnessed. Just for the record, it had been.
Because Jon looked up, then. Jon, ignoring the weather: cool breezes of nerves with a sudden wave of humidity-oh, sorry, stupidity. Jon saw, when he picked his head out of his hands to try and get someone to sit, to laugh.
He saw the admiration for Brendon leave Ryan’s eyes. He saw them turn into voids. He saw. People might say the boy is monotonous; is unfeeling, but one look in his eyes and you know it’s not true.
But everything left them, in that split second.
In that second, when Jon looked up by mere chance, the world stopped spinning.
Just for the record.
* * *
Almost exactly like a day during the recording of Fever, the world picked back up again almost instantly. That day years ago, Ryan had leapt up off the ground and began scrawling in his notebook, inspiration come flooding back to him like the gates of hell had opened. He wouldn’t stop writing even when his hand cramped up.
This time however, it was light that flowed back into Ryan’s eyes, but it was different. Something about them was not as it should be, but Jon couldn’t put a finger on it.
And so he said nothing.
It may have been the weather was actually beckoning light showers of The Greatest Mistake of Your Life.
Just for the record.
* * *
The following week was spent finalizing the record and finishing the majority of filming for the DVD. With all the rushing and stress, no one had much time to think about anything but their individual tasks-at-hand.
Brendon lightened up considerably, much to Spencer and Jon’s relief, and Ryan seemed to be a bit calmer. Well, a lot calmer. Perhaps, without Brendon breathing down his back about everything, he felt more comfortable, or perhaps it was something else.
Jon even forgot what he’d witnessed the week before. The incident was filed away somewhere deep inside of his memory, along with tidbits like ‘how to factor numbers’ and ‘Christopher Columbus found The New World in 1492.’
Even after all that needed to be done was done, Panic only had a few days off before they were packing and headed off to Europe for their last tour before the new CD.
Any worries Spencer may or may not have had about the tour were nearly entirely eliminated on the plane ride, as Ryan and Brendon were back to being friendly and happy and cheerful with each other, and Ryan wasn’t jumping and twitching at every little thing he might have done wrong.
Though, if Spencer was being perfectly honest with himself, there was something a little bit off about Ryan Ross. And even after all those years of knowing him, he couldn’t quite put a finger on what.
* * *
Indeed, everything seemed to be going quite well for the boys of Panic at the Disco (just for the record). They flowed near-seamlessly together, both in interviews-even though Ryan was more outspoken than normal-and on stage.
Offstage was a constant loop of sidestepping and wary glances, a never ending downpour of doubt and cheesy grins. Jon, having put everything behind him, sent his cool-as-cucumber smiles around the group, attempting to settle them down.
Ryan seemed unnaturally at ease, waving worries off with a flap of his thin hand and staring blankly at most anyone who addressed him.
Brendon, though generally as close to his usual formula of serious and hyper as normal, seemed edgy. An almost demonic sparkle lit his dark eyes, and the smirk on his lips said “screw the piano-I know something you don’t know.”
The most awkward out of all of them was Spencer; skirting around everyone as though he was trying to pretend everything was in fact, standard. He walked on eggshells; tread uncharted waters. His laughter was shaky and his smiles few and far between.
Zack? He just didn’t know what to do with anyone.
This steady schedule, this simple routine, this regularity went on for a good week or so until finally, one day an hour before they went on stage, Brendon dropped the grenade.
He flopped down on a chair, stretched his arms high above his head, and sighed heavily.
“Man, guys, I just don’t know what to say tonight.”
Six eyes stared at him; his veiled grin. Skittish, interested, indifferent. Three people identified merely by their behavior.
Taking the initiative no one else seemed willing to take, Jon spoke. “What d’you mean, Bren?”
He sighed again. “Its just…it’s lame to say the same old thing every night and I’m growing a little bored of it, but I just don’t know what to say… I wish you guys would back me up now and again.”
Skittish turned to annoyed as Spencer rolled his eyes, brushing off the drama by merely turning away. Bemusement came from interest when Jon raised an eyebrow at Brendon, silently questioning the extremity, before suggesting introducing a different set of songs and walking away.
It was only Ryan who actually looked mildly affronted as his thoughts ran wild; shock, hurt, anger. He always backed Brendon up, whether with a silent reassurance or a vocal addition. What right did he have to say that nobody ever backed him up?
It was really a wonder nobody noticed this personal attack.
* * *
That night, Ryan jumped in with steely determination and introduced each song before Brendon even had a chance to open his mouth. In fact, those lips seemed rather content to smirk the time away as Ryan spoke.
When they left the stage later on, Ryan wiped his face with a small white towel before throwing it at Brendon and sparing him a withering, challenging glance, then whirling on his heel and walking away.
Spencer and Jon both stared after him, slack-jawed.
Brendon just grinned.
* * *
That night, curled up in the cramped heat of his bunk, Brendon tossed and turned. He gripped his pillow, nestling it close to his chest and sighing heavily. He put on two layers of socks and snuggled chin-deep under his blankets, but nothing seemed to shake the empty cold he felt deep inside.
It was sad, he thought, that he had far too much pride to seek out the one thing that could fill him up again.
* * *
One day, Ryan went missing.
It really was just as simple as that. He was gone, and nobody seemed to know where he’d run off to.
“He couldn’t have gone far,” reassured a techie.
“He’ll make sound check, don’t worry,” promised someone working for them no one had ever seen before. In response, the slightly quick-tempered woman in charge of bossing them around at this particular venue spat out in her thick French accent, “’E better be ‘ere by zound check!”
Hours later found Brendon and the rather panicked Frenchwoman pacing back and forth across the room. Spencer buried his head in his hands, cell phone clutched tightly in one of them, while Jon looked torn between something invisible.
“Dude, where the fuck is he?” Brendon swore, as the managing Frenchwoman was screaming something similar in rushed, angry syllables that none of them understood.
Jon peeked cautiously between Spencer and Brendon, though his eyes tended to linger on the former’s nervous fingers. A strange sense of déjà vu had settled over him; on the other side, now, of a major band crisis. He knew they were literally minutes away from witnessing Spencer dial up anyone and everyone he knew and trusted, begging and questioning how long it would take them to get to France.
The last time this had occurred, it had been Jon on the other end of the phone line. And, well, as they say: the rest is history.
Jon really hoped Ryan got back soon.
* * *
Ten minutes to sound check-ten seconds to Spencer pushing “dial” on the screen of his cell, ready and waiting to contact Michael Guy Chislett of The Academy Is-and Ryan walks in the door; all nonchalance and cocked eyebrows.
Spencer leapt up, anger bubbling high in his heart. The phone slipped from his fingers, cracking as it connected with the floor. Jon grinned, happy and relieved. It was Brendon who let his feelings explode.
“Where the fucking hell were you?” he boomed, face bright red. “Do you have any idea how worried we were? Any at all?!”
Ryan merely blinked, slow and sure, before he spoke. “I was doing an interview. Some lady came up to me when I was headed up here earlier and asked if she could ask me a few questions, and I figured, ‘why not?’”
Jon watched Spencer’s jaw drop, and just for the record, his heart fell with it.
“But…why?”
Ryan shrugged. “Because,” he began, cool eyes boring into Brendon, “wouldn’t you have just sent me off to do it anyway?”
The air around them tightened, and nothing more needed to be said. Not even the enraged manager thought it wise to say anything; she merely turned on her heel and went to check on other things.
The show that night was definitely under-par. Spencer felt it a miracle that nobody called them on it.
* * *
Several show nights passed, and everyone was growing increasingly frustrated with Ryan. At first, most everyone had seen it as a good thing, him slowly emerging from his shell. Speaking up in interviews without being prompted, even talking more on stage; that was all positive-well, it might be more so, if Brendon hadn’t pressured him into it in the first place.
However, along with this newfound confidence came a lot of attitude-attitude no one really appreciated.
He was whiny when he didn’t get things he wanted, cranky about everything ranging from not having matching socks to a hotel without room service.
Jon joked one day that he sounded just like Paris Hilton, but the shaky laughter quickly subsided when they all realized just how true the statement was.
Sure, Ryan could be a real diva. But this had never happened before; this was something they didn’t know how to deal with, this was over-the-top, this was uncalled for.
This wasn’t Ryan anymore.
* * *
Days passed, and things got progressively worse. Nobody wanted to say anything about it, and that’s what irked Jon the most. Spencer, he thought, should be the one to be yelling, but ever since the MIA fiasco he seemed to be too shy and edgy to say anything about Ryan’s shitty behavior. (Just for the record, Spencer didn’t want Ryan running off like Brent did. Even after all this time, he was terrified it would happen again. They all were.)
Jon was also rather nonplussed with Brendon. Brendon, who had been so quick to snap at Ryan before. Brendon, who very well may have gotten them into this mess in the first place, and he didn’t have the balls to say anything now.
Hypocritical as it may be, Jon himself didn’t say anything until the one day he was far too peeved to make everyone coffee as usual. One time, he made a cup just for himself.
And Ryan exploded.
“What the hell, Jon?” he screeched, face scrunched and turning angry pink.
Jon snapped; elastic stretched too far.
“No, Ryan, what the hell is up with you?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about? Are you kidding me?”
The look on Jon’s face was one that none of them had ever seen before, so full of malice and anger. It glued Brendon to his seat with a thick layer of shock, but something about it made Spencer spring to action.
“You’re not the same, Ryan,” he said, soft but strong.
“I’m not the same?” asked Ryan, incredulous.
“No, you aren’t, man,” Brendon chimed in after a beat.
Jon prompted, “you’ve changed.”
“What the fuck! Why the hell are you all ganging up on me? What the fuck did I do? I’ve changed?”
“You have, Ryan,” Brendon said, shaking his head. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Ryan’s face got redder, and redder, and redder; his eyes darker, and darker, and darker. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that what you were trying to do? Making me sing, making me do all those interviews-“
“Making you sing?!” Jon shrieked, just as pissed off now. Spencer cut him off before he had a chance to say anything more.
“Ryan, you have changed. Please just listen to us. You’re being ridiculous, and-“
“Spencer, people grow up!” Ryan threw his arms up as he hollered. “I’m not the same kid as I was when you first met me, I’m not the same teenager I was when we made this band! I changed? What about you?”
“Ryan-"
“I don’t want to hear it! I’ve grown up, and if you guys can’t…if you can’t fucking deal with that, then I’m out of here.”
Spencer’s jaw dropped. Jon’s eyes grew to saucers.
“Listen, Ryan-" he tried.
“Fuck. You!” Ryan roared, then turned on his heel and marched away.
Jon turned to Brendon, horror and accusation and hurt and worry flashing across his face so fast it nearly made his head spin. Spencer was looking at the ground, but Brendon knew he was crushed.
The young singer was out of his seat and running in less than two-point-five seconds.
* * *
Brendon chased the other boy down the seemingly endless bus aisle, terror grabbing hold of his chest and twisting. This wasn’t happening-not again, not to them, not to this band, not to him.
“Ryan!” he all but screamed. “Ryan, wait! Listen to me!”
Ryan whirled around. “What, Brendon,” he snapped, far more statement than question.
“Listen to me.”
Brendon heaved as though he had run a marathon, not even aware he just repeated himself. Ryan stared at him, but it wasn’t patience in his gaze.
“Ryan, you did change. And-“
“I think-“
“Damnit!”
Ryan’s mouth snapped shut.
“You did. And you didn’t fucking have to-not for us, not for the public, not for me, not for anyone! Not even for yourself, Ryan, ‘cause there was nothing wrong with you. If you wanted to sing, then fine! None of us would have had a problem with it, seriously! We’re your friends, treat us better than that.”
Brendon took a long, shaky breath.
“And I can’t help but think this is my fault, ‘cause I pushed you into it, but I didn’t mean to, Ry! Well, I did, but not this. Nobody would have wanted this. Ryan, I-I just…” He ran a hand through his hair as Ryan stood stock-still, waiting.
“We need you, Ryan. We love you, not this…this fake. We miss you, Ryan.” He sighed, knowing that anyone would be able to pick out his use of the royal ‘we,’ and added in a whisper, “I miss you.”
He bowed his head, and an old memory came rushing back, smashing into his wide eyes like a neon train wreck.
Brendon lazed on his top bunk on their first tour with The Bus. With his sidekick in one hand and the other dangling off the edge, he felt perfectly content.
“I miss you,’ he said into the phone, a small smile on his lips. Soft fingers stretched up and touched his hand.
“You can’t miss me, Brendon, I’m right here.”
Brendon’s head jolted up, his eyes met Ryan’s, and he completely froze up. He could see something deep inside the clouded, hazel orbs that had been missing for so long. His brain informed him that this was the part in movies and books where you go running and attack the other person with a hug, or possibly an overly passionate kiss. But this was Brendon Urie’s life, and Brendon Urie’s life was not a movie. Besides, he really was too shocked to move.
Then, Ryan smiled. It was so real, so unlike the “Ryan” that had taken over. It spread like wildfire onto Brendon’s face, and the two were soon doubled over in laughter at absolutely nothing.
Brendon’s sides ached and he was certain Ryan wasn’t getting any air at all, his face was so red. But he felt relieved; felt like maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out okay.
* * *
That night, Ryan and Brendon curled up together as best as they could in the same bunk. Brendon’s soul swelled and Ryan’s heart must have regained seven sizes. His shyness not as evident as it once was-he would probably never be the same-he spoke softly,
“You really missed me?”
Wriggling around to face him, Brendon raised an eyebrow. “Of course I did, man, you’re such a douche.”
And then he laughed, gently poking Ryan in the nose. Lines scrunched around the small appendage as the guitarist poked his tongue out lamely. Brendon chuckled again and sucked what was visible of Ryan’s pink tongue in for an affectionate kiss.
Pulling away, he beamed.
“Actually,” he mused, “I think I missed that more.”
The next second found him on his butt in the bus aisle, laughing hysterically when he heard his friend’s annoyed huff.
Things were going to be okay. Brendon felt it in his heart.
Jon and Spencer looked on from their hideout in Jon’s bunk, smiling merry little smiles at each other at the sight before them.
“It’s good to have you back, Ryan,” Jon murmured. Spencer snorted.
“It’s good to have Brendon back, too.”
Jon nodded his agreement, and both men slid out of the bunk and into the kitchenette. They were all back, and just for the record? It was great to be home.